


the whole world waiting for you to make a mistake

by goodbyechunkylemonmilk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyechunkylemonmilk/pseuds/goodbyechunkylemonmilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regulus writes for the first time since Sirius left home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the whole world waiting for you to make a mistake

**Author's Note:**

> References to anxiety and other mental health issues. (Title from Sandra Cisneros’ The House on Mango Street)

Sirius Black is cool and collected and completely convinced he will never again draw enough air into his lungs. He’s going to die here, he knows, in the grass behind James’ house where the Black family owl has, no doubt with a struggle, managed to find him and drop a letter into his lap. A letter with his name written on it in what is undeniably Regulus’ handwriting. He means to keep James from seeing his indecision, but of course it would be difficult for anyone, let alone the star Chaser of a winning team, to miss a large owl swooping into their makeshift Quidditch pitch.

“Is that from your parents?” James lands and dismounts with a little less grace than usual, stumbling over his feet in his rush to be nearby without seeming concerned.

Sirius realizes with a jolt that he doesn’t actually know. Though Regulus’ neat script is on the front, the letter could easily have been written with them rather than, as he has been imagining, behind their backs. So he says, “I haven’t got any parents. Never really did.” He means for it to sound flippant, but he’s staring at his feet and uprooting handfuls of grass as he claims orphanhood, and the overall effect is a bit more melancholy. Still, he may not pull off carefree, but he at least manages breathing-properly, which is a feat since he is, in fact, not.

 

Usually when this happens, he doesn’t let it get to the point of full-blown hyperventilation. His anxiety is signaled by a tightness in his chest, the familiar ache of air deprivation though he continues to breathe in and out in a neat, controlled way. Usually when this happens, he sits next to James in class or he sits next to James at meals or he sits next to James in the common room and keeps it all to himself. But this time, something is different. The fusion of Regulus’ r with his i, maybe, a mostly-abandoned habit that resurfaces when he’s stressed. Or it could be the weight of the parchment, high-quality and creamy beneath his fingers, which means it’s from the personal stock of their parents (disavowed though they may be, Sirius has yet to find a more convenient way to refer to them—five years of determined rebellion under his belt and he still flinches reflexively when he thinks of using their first names). Whatever it is, it completely demolishes his hard-won control and leaves him hunched over, the letter dropped but not forgotten by his feet. His breath picks up, and at first it relieves some of the tension, but then he can’t stop, and he must be breathing out but all he can feel are the desperate gasps he keeps hoping will allow him to finally relax.

He crouches in the grass and suddenly James is next to him, smiling and stable and solid. James’ arms are around him before he can think (not that this means much, considering his state). James doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t ask why or point out that it’s only a letter, Sirius, really, just lets Sirius’ head rest on his shoulder and keeps quiet about the growing wet spot on the collar of his robes.

James says, when it’s over and Sirius has pulled away, “Well, that was new.” Then, more tentatively, “Was it?”

Sirius thinks it over, finally says, “Yes,” because he has never before been brought back to reality by the steady beat of another’s heart against his cheek, by arms wrapped around him, by James’ fingers running through his hair, and that is new enough.

“Right.” James shrugs, clearly doesn’t believe him but knows better than to bring it up. “Well, I opened the letter.” Sirius is not actually sure how he’s meant to have done this while being clutched at like a life preserver, but he must have managed, because he brandishes a piece of parchment full of Regulus’ cramped handwriting. James laughs and leans back, holding it out of reach so Sirius ends up on top of him after trying to grab it. There’s no fear, because James wouldn’t be grinning like this if something were wrong, so instead, Sirius laughs and wrestles for it and loses just like always, because a significant amount of his fighting strategy involves a willingness to inflict pain, and he can’t find it in himself to knee James in the crotch or claw at his cheek. (And, though they don’t acknowledge it, James’ exercise regimen and relatively healthy diet have never been interrupted by unpredictable breakdowns, so Sirius may have the broader frame, but James can pin him in less than a minute.)

Sirius says, a bit winded and with James’ hands on his wrists, “Fine, I give up.” And James knows exactly how far to take a joke, so he stands, helps Sirius up, and then hands over the parchment. “You’re lucky you let go when you did. I was just lying in wait to destroy you.” Sirius makes a show of brushing off his robes before even bothering to take a look.

The letter starts, “I hope you’re safe at Potter’s and not off doing something stupid,” and James laughs and says they’ll just have to go for a rematch and pretends not to notice Sirius wiping his eyes.


End file.
